


Longform Lesbian Census

by gala_apples



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Crying, Drunk Sex, Multi, Post-Canon, Questioning Sexuality, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 03:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13227621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Q 110: Would you say you're very likely, somewhat likely, somewhat unlikely, or very unlikely to get promiscuous while drunk?A: Only when I've had meaningful conversations with the person I'm drinking with.





	Longform Lesbian Census

“Have you ever thought about sex with a girl?” Hanna asks apropos of nothing whatsoever. She’s flushed, face and neck and visible chest pinker than she usually is. Normally Spencer would assume it’s from the wine they’ve been downing all night, but the question is risque, too.

“Excuse me. What?” No matter how many times Hanna says something inane, Spencer still retains the lofty goal of making her be clear.

“I dunno Spence. Just, it seems to work for Emily and Alison.”

Spencer skewers her friend with a look. “They're lesbians.”

“Yeah, but it worked for Jenna and Shana.”

“Hanna, stop listing queer people you know. Girl sex works with people who like girls. Even if they like guys too.”

“But don't you think everybody thinks about it sometimes?”

“I dunno Han. Ask Aria.” Spencer flops her head back on the couch and doesn’t regret for an instant throwing Aria under the bus. She’ll have more to say than Spencer could anyway. She’s a writer, she’s probably imagined every scenario under the sun, realistic or not.

“I _did_.”

“Okay, so...” Spencer intends for that to be the end of it, but Hanna takes it as a leading statement.

“In Paris she made out with a girl while Ezra watched. At a bar.”

“Oh, wow,” Spencer replies faintly. She takes another sip of her wine.

“Do you think she's bi now? Do you think if you kissed a girl you'd imagine having sex with her?”

“I uh, I don't know.”

“How would you have sex with a girl? What would you do?”

“What is this, the lesbian census?” Spencer snaps, maybe a bit over-aggressively.

“Spencer, stop.”

“You brought it up! Not me.”

“I know. But I'm tired and drunk and want to kiss a girl while Caleb watches. Do you think he'd like it like Ezra did?”

Holy shit. Spencer in no way signed up for this bizarre conversation. “I think that's something you should talk to him about. And I think you should go to bed. Get up, I'll tuck you in.”

After Hanna is tidily in bed, jeans a pile on the guest room floor, comforter pulled up around her shoulders, Spencer makes her way back into the living room. Well, into the massive space that contains everything that’s not bedroom and bathroom, because it’s just about impossible to get a house that’s not open concept these days. On the coffee table sit the two empty bottles they consumed. There's some dregs in the third, and Spencer’s really not in the mood to struggle with getting the cork back in the top. She pours it as the better alternative. It turns out to be most of a glass, but there’s no going back now. She drinks it down, then makes her way to her own room, forgoing any of her normal night routines. Her teeth can wait for brushing until morning. Her skin can remain unmoisturized. She wants to lay down. She wants to be naked.

When Spencer is wine drunk she gets horny. That's standard fare. What's different is what's on her mind. Thanks to Hanna, she's actually thinking about it. Spencer's always loved a boyfriend who would go down on her. Toby and Phillipe and Marco all come to mind. Would it really be any different if a woman went down on her? 

Spencer ruts against her vibe and imagines it, a woman coming up for air with her hair mussed and lipstick smeared across her face. It's probably not good for her vaginal PH to get makeup everywhere, but screw reality, Spencer's sloshed and Hanna would look good with pink candy floss lip tint all over her chin. And later, when Spencer comes holding Hanna in place with hands on her head, she'll flood so much that Hanna will come up with mascara running down her face. _Fuck_ that's hot.

*

Fuck, what a nightmare. The last thing Spencer needs in her life is a quarter life sexuality crisis. 

It'd be different if it was a stupid drunk thing. Beer goggles aren't only for bringing home ugly people. They're also for weird fantasies that make you say _what in the sweet Jesus was that_ when you're sober. Spencer's top five drunk-self-why's include tentacles and a soccer team gang. You just use a little self-directed sarcasm, and bam, right back to normal. 

But Spencer woke up sober. And she woke up turned on. And she woke up wanting Hanna to eat her out. So goddamn her for starting this bullshit, seriously.

*

Spencer’s reading on her porch, engrossed in this odd dystopian tale about a world which starts forgetting how to define words. She’s been reading for over an hour, pulled the ‘just one more chapter’ stunt about seven times. It’s that kind of book. The only thing that pulls her out of it is a car coasting up her driveway. She hears it before she sees it. The visual puts any reflex nervousness on calm down. It’s just Caleb’s car, she’s seen it a thousand times or more. It’s no one she has to put a persona on for. He probably wouldn’t even care if she continued reading. He’d probably pull out his phone and read some crypto-hacking forum until she was ready to put a bookmark in her pages.

But it’s Caleb, and she loves talking to him, so she slips the cardstock into her book and puts it on her knee. By the time he’s reclining into the second ornately carved deck chair, Spencer’s all ready to be attentive.

“So Hanna said I should talk to you about threesomes.”

“What?” Spencer couldn't be more surprised if she found out she was quintuplets, not twins. And Jesus, what a cold open. Yeah, she knows Caleb’s not great at beating around the bush, but _Jesus_.

“Wait...” Caleb drifts. “Did _she_ not talk to you about threesomes? Did she just send me to scout first? What the hell, Hanna?”

Before he gets too far into cursing out his wife, who isn’t here to defend herself, Spencer decides to straighten things out. “I don't know how mad you want to get. She did talk about sex with women, and voyeurism. I just didn't think she'd remember it sober. She was trashed.”

Caleb shrugs. “She remembers enough that we've been talking about it for weeks.”

“Oh,” Spencer says. She can't think of what else to say. Certainly not that she’s been thinking about it for weeks. There is a firm difference between masturbation and actually committing an act. 

“So. Do you want to talk about threesomes?” It feels like Caleb’s pinning her down with the bold question, like his hands might as well be on her shoulders and her back on the mattress as he stares into her eyes.

“You should read this book,” Spencer blatantly changes the topic. “I think we’d have fun arguing about if the internet is ruining people’s memory, or merely acting like an addition hard drive for trivia people used to have to memorise.”

“That sounds like anti-Millennial bullshit,” Caleb retorts. He’s allowing her reroute of conversation, and for that Spencer is grateful.

*

If wine makes Spencer horny, martinis makes her weepy. Not just physiologically speaking, though no doubt that's part of it, gin is more of a depressant than other alcohols. The real problem is a martini was what she was drinking the night she tried to set up Rollins running away. Getting tanked and almost fucking a stranger in an elevator directly after destroying her own plot with a ill-thought signature, it ranks as one of Spencer's lowest moments. 

Han and Caleb don't have the same associations, don't even know she does, so of course this bottle of Vitani premixed martinis is the only drink in their house. If she’d known she could have bought something on the way over, but she didn’t think to ask. To be fair to her skills of anticipation, what twenty five year olds only have one bottle of alcohol?

Despite knowing what might happen if she joins in on their row of shots, Spencer picks up a shot glass and pounds it back. She doesn’t have many other options. Grocery delivering services don’t run this late, and there will be too many questions -the kind of questions that put a damper on the joyous mood of the room- if she asks to drive to a bottle store now. She can’t refuse to drink. They’re celebrating Hanna getting a callback to the next level of auditions for Project Runway. If ever there’s a time to get hammered on hard liquor, it’s when you’re two interviews away from Tim Gunn.

Her best bet is to drink just enough to go along with things until their friends arrive. Sure Aria and Ezra are on a book tour, but Alison and Emily are supposed to arrive any minute now. They’ll definitely bring something with them, considering Spencer’s texted them three times about it in the span of ten minutes. Until then, well, Vitani down the hatch.

By the time Alison texts about the babysitter falling through, they're well on their way to obliterated. Spencer’s had at least six shots, if not more. The pink plastic shot glasses get difficult to count after a while. Spencer reads out the text, and Hanna performs a few minutes of a tantrum about nobody appreciating her successes before getting distracted with the playlist streaming on the Marin-Rivers SmartTV. Clever of Caleb, to put on a playlist he knew she’d love.

Spencer watches her dancing, carefree, clothes curving with motion around everything that makes her a women. She starts thinking about how Cece stole all their dances, not just prom, but the Halloween train, and Hanna's pageant dance, and even the dance marathon. Okay, that was technically Mona, but still, A. Spencer starts crying. She can't help it. All those moments lost to child abuse and neglect driving people mad.

“Hey, hey, hey. Woah,” Caleb says in alarm. It's not a surprise that he notices first, Hanna still dancing. He's always been more mind, Hanna more body. One leads to observation skills, one to grace.

“Spence, oh my god, Spence!” Hanna scurries over, gait unaffected by the alcohol flowing through her veins and her ridiculously high heels. Proof of concept right there, folks, Spencer thinks. Hanna drops to her knees and her skirt rides up. Spencer knows she shouldn’t be looking, knows it’s ridiculous that even in her sudden melancholy she is still has a kernel of intrigue. Maybe this, too, is something A took from her. Maybe if she’d had a normal high school experience she would have had the time to experiment with some rich girl in tennis gear at the club, rather than spend her nights sneaking into people’s houses for clues. Hanna looks up at Spencer. “Spence, what's wrong?”

“What's wrong?” How can Hanna even ask that? “We missed it all. So many experiences.”

“We’ll make more. Now that it's all over, we'll make more.”

This tipsy, Spencer says what they all secretly fear. “What if it's not? We thought it was before, and then Alex...”

“So we'll do it in between. We can live in patches, Spencer. Do things, crazy things, and live enough to make the bad worth it.”

Spencer thinks she knows what Hanna has in mind for crazy experiences. And maybe it’s the booze wiping out her hesitation, a negative thing used for good, like doing amphetamines in order to save everyone. Regardless of what straight edge people say, drugs do exist for a reason. She’s drunk, and she bends down and kisses Hanna, puts her primly made-up lips pressing against Hanna’s pink painted ones. They’re plump, like no matter how many times you go to fat camp and lose the weight, it never leaves your lips. 

It takes a minute before the idea settles in Hanna’s startled brain and she starts kissing back. When she does it feels like burgundy velvet running through Spencer’s veins, impossibly erotic. Her hair tugs once, when Hanna’s hand pulls out her pony tail holder. It’s a pain that Spencer’s grateful for when it results in fingers woven through her hair, holding her like Hanna can’t let go.

“Spencer.” 

Spencer hears Caleb say it, but she doesn’t break off right away. She wants to taste the bitter wax of Hanna’s 18 hour lipstick. Does it make her so bad that she cares about her wants more than someone else’s? She was raised that way. Alison was the same way. It’s how it was so easy to understand the worst of her and hate it. Safer than hating herself. Hating yourself leads to a breakdown, and the Hastings don’t do that. Until they do.

“Spence!” She gives in now, to what her moral compass demands, instead of what her id wants. She looks at Caleb, acknowledges that he has the right to an opinion. “Do you want me to be here? Or do I need to go?”

Is this what a 21st century gentleman looks like? Offering to leave a sexual encounter rather than intrude where he’s not wanted? So different from the dapper days of old.

“Spencer, you gotta say something.”

After so many years of torment it's an understatement to say Spencer doesn't like being manipulated into stark truth. What's also true however, is she hates being lied to and making up lies. She wants Caleb just as much as Hanna. She’s never really gotten over losing him to her.

“Can I- can I kiss you? Or is those supposed to be about Hanna getting her gay on?” It’s hard to just guess what the guidelines of this are supposed to be.

“Go on, get in there! There are no rules during sex!” Or you can just be Hanna and not give a fuck, Spencer supposes.

By the time Spencer is done reacquainting herself with Caleb’s mouth, Hanna’s stripped down. She’s clad only in lingerie and high heels. [It’s a bodysuit made mostly out of lace, with a few sheer panels, and a plunging neckline](https://www.lasenza.ca/unlined-lace-bodysuit-with-garter-straps-11118545.html). She looks so good Spencer can feel herself wettening. She wonders if Hanna always wears underwear so sexy, or if she had ideas for this night from the start, even when she thought Alison and Emily were coming over and the Fitzs’ would be on the facetime app on the smart tv. They might have accosted her in the pantry, getting more ice out for her drink, fingers in her panties in seconds flat, only enough time for her to moan yes before they started touching her. And what does it say about Spencer that she finds it hot that Hanna’s been wanting to fuck her for hours? Maybe this is one of those kinky drunk thoughts, but jesus is it hot to be used as a toy.

Seeing Hanna like that, Spencer has no choice but to go in for another kiss. The lace is the slightest bit rough on her fingers, but that doesn’t stop Spencer from running her hands all over her best friend. When she pulls back, Caleb is intently watching. Spencer likes the way his thumbs are tucked into the waistband of his jeans, shirt off. Spencer’s always had a thing for hands, skinny piano playing fingers and people who talk as much through gesture as through words. So many guys stand with their hands in their armpits at bars and museums and social gatherings. As far as she’s concerned, it’s tantamount to hiding their best assets, completely failing to show off their merchandise.

“We should take this to the bedroom?”

Spencer’s been in Hanna’s bedroom more than once. More than a hundred times. Whether they’re fifteen or twenty five or fifty five, Spencer will always be in the kind of friendship group that has endless opinions on fashion, and sometimes that involves an hour long try on of everything in a wardrobe. She’s seen everything in this room, from the pristine white comforter to the lavender-grey painted walls and the pop of colour blue armchair and footrest. There’s only one new thing, and it’s utterly captivating. It’s Caleb unhooking the eyelets of Hanna’s bodysuit, and watching the lace fall and reveal gorgeous breasts. At least for a moment, and then they disappear behind Caleb stepping in for a kiss, and Spencer wants to lick a stripe up his smooth brown back.

With the coordination of a desperate intoxicated giraffe, Spencer gets all her clothes off and stumbles closer to the two hot sights. She reaches around to undo Caleb’s belt. Once it’s loose enough she pushes his jeans down his legs, and sticks a hand down the spandex back of his boxer briefs. Those are definitely Hanna’s work, he wore boring grey underwear when Spencer was dating him.

On one hand, it’s a damn shame to spend as much as Spencer knows Hanna did on lingerie and only show it off for ten minutes before it gets tossed aside. On the other hand, Spencer doesn’t want five hours of half dressed foreplay, not the least because by then they’ll be sober and attitudes might change. She likes Hanna nude, and wanting. Naked, splayed on the white sheets of their king sized bed, she looks like buttercream icing on vanilla cake. Spencer falls on her like she's ravenous. So does Caleb. Two equal and opposing springs of the mattress. If Spencer has anything to say about it, it’s only the first motion of abuse this bed will take.

Hanna shrieks with two mouths on her, kissing her breasts and scattering across her stomach. Spencer glides her hand up Hanna's thigh until she’s touching where she’s warmest. It’s all pure alcohol driven instinct, what comes next. Spencer hasn’t manually masturbated in years, it just doesn't get her there, but she can pretend she knows what she’s doing, for Hanna’s sake.

Some combination of Spencer’s touch, Caleb’s assistance, and the inhibition lowering alcohol gets to Hanna. She comes with a perfectly manicured hand clenched around Caleb’s forearm so hard Spencer thinks it might bruise. She does her best to soothe Caleb’s skin, she leans forward and licks the skin on the edges of Hanna’s grip. In a whirlwind of movement Spencer later won’t be able to place, she ends up using the same mouth and tongue on Caleb’s hard shaft. It’s really no surprise. The alcohol has made each participant skin hungry. Even Hanna, who’s technically already had her fill, is acting like she hasn’t been touched yet.

Hanna stops her before Caleb comes. She’s always had a different spirit of competition than Spencer. Spencer was born into a house where only excelling makes you worthwhile, and nurtured that attitude in herself. Hanna competes only when it’s funny to win and piss people off. Case in point, some drunken ornery sliver of her won't let her allow Caleb to finish. Instead she puts her hands on Spencer. Spencer rolls with Hanna’s movement, tumbling in the bed until she's on the bottom, back on the sheets. Hanna wriggles down until her face is at Spencer's mound. She gasps as the whole world shrinks to Hanna's tongue on her.

Spencer can barely catch her breath. Jesus Christ, does she love getting eaten out. It makes her feel like she’s on fire, blue-hot flame in her pussy lighting tendrils up through the rest of her body. Hanna's rhythm is stuttering but Spencer's so close she barely notices. Her vision changes as tears come to her eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jesus, it’s so good.

Her orgasm is like a bubble popping. Stretching, expanding to encompass her, her tether to reality getting thinner and thinner until the pressure’s too much and it -she- splits. Spencer’s lungs heave for breath. Hanna keeps licking at her, until Spencer reaches down with a shaky hand and pushes her away. It’s then that she notices for the first time that Caleb is fucking Hanna madly. Call it booze based tunnel vision, whoops. Suddenly the abrupt rhythm loss makes sense. Actually, kudos to Hanna for managing to keep any kind of rhythm whatsoever, when Caleb is pistoning into her so wildly. Spencer remembers those nights. Her pussy must be exploding with sensation. The memories are almost enough to make Spencer want to get fucked after Hanna, but her overtaxed body is saying _no fuckin’ way_.

With Caleb literally fucking Hanna up the bed, now that Spencer’s open legs are no longer a barrier to Hanna’s head, their faces get closer and closer. It takes a second for her to see the tears Spencer’s shedding, but when she does it's “oh Spence, what's wrong?”

The bed loudly creaks as Caleb strains to see past Hanna to her, presumably to see if Hanna is making mountains out of molehills, or if the threesome has turned wrong and he has to fix things, the way he always fixes problems in Hanna’s life.

“Nothing,” Spencer tries to explain, tears flowing all the while. “It's so good.”

Caleb reaches out and strokes a gentle hand down her face. There’s no effort to wipe her face dry, just the kind of acceptance of facts that always makes him such a good companion to those high strung people he seems to surround himself with.

Hanna, meanwhile, reacts verbally. “Good enough to make you cry? Wow.” 

Hanna stretches up and kisses her wet cheeks. It feels like a post-coital snuggle in the best of ways, even though Hanna is getting fucked by Caleb and they’re still very definitely current-coital. If that’s even a phrase. Spencer’s too overwhelmed to be verbose.

Spencer lies there, slowly regaining equilibrium, as Hanna and Caleb finish. She’s still drunk, but she’s getting more sober as the minutes tick by. She doubts she’ll have a hangover in the morning. Drunk, sober, or somewhere in between, it’s still a treat to watch one of the loves of her life and one of her best friends go at it. They’re so _pretty_. Hanna was absolutely right, watching people you care about make out is the best.

As Spencer’s body calms her eyes dry up. It blows her mind a little bit that she cried from pleasure, but the proof was in Caleb’s steady hand, taking it all in. Besides, it’s hard to feel self-conscious about crying when Hanna clearly liked it. There are much worse reactions that could have happened.

When they come it’s half beside her, half on top of her. Spencer watches but doesn’t try to take part in their brief clean up. There’s disposal of the condom, because not everyone is Alison and Emily and wants kids right after school. There’s Hanna dragging the hastily removed comforter back onto the bed in a heap. There’s Caleb ducking into the ensuite and coming out with a package of baby wipes. That’s the only thing Spencer does do; takes a wipe and cleans her inner thighs as best as she’s able without going to the great effort of climbing into their shower. Spencer doesn’t want to shower, she wants to _sleep_.

Unless... Unless they want to reassert their marriage, and don’t want her to stay the night. After all, this whole thing started because Hanna was into a Katy Perry kind of idea, bisexuality as performance. It makes an unfortunate amount of sense that Spencer is just about overstaying her welcome, that her hourglass is running to its last grains.

“So what next?”

She’s expecting Caleb’s problem solving to take over, for better or worse, but that’s not what happens. Surprisingly, Hanna takes the stage. 

“We go to sleep now, all together. We wake up breathing twice the amount of morning breath. We rock paper scissors for who has to get dressed and go on the Dunkin Donuts run. We eat donuts with a big glass of milk. Then we fuck. We come five times before noon.”

Hanna is indulgence personified. She’s fifty dollar Vermont maple syrup poured on buttery pancakes, eaten on a balcony overlooking a mountain range. She’s artisanal bath oils in an antique clawfoot tub, a chandelier overhead prisming rainbows onto a plush bathrobe. She’s, apparently, a husband and a lover both on satin sheets, drunk under a curtainless window with starlight streaming in, and this one time Spencer is comfortable with her privilege to indulge. Mark her as an upper class polyamorous bisexual woman on the lesbian census, if you must.

**Author's Note:**

> The book Spencer is reading is real, it's called [The Word Exchange](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18209339-the-word-exchange), and it does indeed give me a lot of mixed feelings about memory vs the internet as a tool.


End file.
